


One Day for the Breaking, One More to Heal

by pinstripedJackalope



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Coran gives him a hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Mental Breakdown, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Season 4 Spoilers, Suicidal Tendencies, group hug, he's not in a very good headspace, it's not a oneshot anymore, not kidding about that angst tho, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 04:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12357918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: Keith did something drastic when he was trying to save Voltron in that last battle.  He didn't quite go through with it, though.  A week later, his mind catches up to just what happened.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, there's something going on with Keith right now. His character arc is going in scary directions. I really, really just want to hug him.

It doesn’t hit.  The reality of the situation, that is.  He’s not sure what he expects, honestly.  A cartoon mallet to come out of the sky and conk him over the head?  Doesn’t happen.  Lotor talks and Shiro responds and Voltron is safe and the team works to dismantle Naxzela so it will never blow and the reality doesn’t hit.

It doesn’t hit during debrief.  It doesn’t hit when Keith talks about trying to use his cruiser itself to break the particle barrier of the Witch’s ship and Hunk grabs him into a hug so tight it feels like his ribs are breaking.  It doesn’t hit when Kolivan takes him back to the Blade base for medical assessment and every Blade he knows crowds around him, asking what happened and watching his unmasked face closely like they’ll see something important.  It doesn’t hit when he goes to sleep, his dreams weird and muted and buzzing like they don’t quite know what to do yet.

A week later, during a diplomatic dinner where the Blades, Team Voltron, and Lotor are meeting to discuss next steps… that’s when it hits.

Keith is sitting between Kolivan and Shiro, keeping a close eye on the Prince, who seems to be enjoying Hunk’s cuisine.  Lotor pretending he’s not completely confused by what color armor goes with which Lion is funny.  The table talk keeps coming back to Zarkon.  Back and forth people go, finding more and more creative ways to cuss him out.  Contingencies, strongholds, tactical bases to take… one moment Keith’s thinking strategy and stroganoff, and the next… god, he almost died.  Out there.  He almost died for a team distanced from him, that HE pushed away.  Sure, he was willing to give his life for Voltron (always was), but he wasn’t thinking about Voltron in those last seconds.  He was thinking about their faces, the smiles and head tilts and smirks and hugs and—

And now he’s thinking about the day he left.  About how everyone stood there, cold, staring him down because he’d FAILED them and there was nothing he could say except ‘I’m leaving’ and the hug they gave him reeked more of relief than anything else.

He can’t think.  He can’t see.  He stands up from the table and he knows his face is completely blank but that he still needs to leave because _if he stays_ , he is going to break down right here, right now.  He needs out.  His hands are shaking and his lungs are tightening and _he needs out_.

No one stops him.  Someone might call his name, but it’s not until he’s already out the door.  He sucks in a shallow breath and tries not to think about it.  Tries not to think about how it feels just like walking out of the control room, his back to them and the smile slipping from his face.  He takes measured steps.  He focuses on counting them.  Thirty… forty… forty-three… and then he can no longer feel his feet, or his hands, and he knows he probably stumbled and fell like a little child but suddenly he’s kneeling on the floor, his face pressed against the cool surface, so smooth and cool compared to the hot, slicing tears streaming down from his eyes.

He tries not to make a sound.

He knows he’s too far out of control for that now.

How far away is he from the dining hall?  He doesn’t know.  Something like a sob rips up through his chest and he can’t breathe.  Can they hear that?  The thought that someone will come after him and see this hurts.

…Do they care, though?  Somehow the thought of them hearing… and no one coming… that hurts worse.

He presses his hands into the ground until he can almost feel them, cries until all the memories melt together and the feeling of flying toward the particle barrier is the same feeling as walking away from the team and he can’t strike Shiro’s angry face from on top of it all, Shiro telling him to suck it up and fly Black because he couldn’t anymore and “THE TEAM NEEDED YOU, WHERE WERE YOU?  _WHERE WERE YOU_?”

“I _tried_ ,” he says to the floor.  “I-I tried, I tried… please…”

What is he pleading for?  He doesn’t know.  All he knows is that suddenly there are footsteps behind him, and he can’t be seen like this even though part of him is stupidly thankful that someone is coming for him.

God, he’s so stupid.

He starts to push himself off the floor, using the iron, unbendable will that always gets him in trouble.  His head is swimming, he can’t see through the tears, but still he forces his feet under him.  The floor suddenly seems so far away.  He can’t feel anything from the knees down.  He takes a step and his entire leg almost goes out from under him, almost dumps him back onto the floor, and he figures that of all the times to have a panic attack and be so vulnerable that literally anyone can sneak up and stab him in the back _of course_ it should be now, with Lotor half a hallway away.

The footsteps swing around his side, to his front.  Everything is a blur.  There’s pressure on his shoulders, the sides of his neck, like he’s being held steady.  He thinks it’s Matt in front of him, but everything is so disorienting and his head spins and it takes a moment to realize when maybe-Matt pushes him to sit against the wall with his head between his knees.

He gasps, and shakes, and the tears keep coming because he nearly _died_ , and to his Team it’s like he’s already dead and it’s his own damn fault.

It feels like an ice age later when he finally gulps down a breath and it actually feels like it enters his lungs.  Thank god, he thinks, and tries to do it again.  Then again.  The dizziness is starting to let up.  His heart, pounding in his chest, aches like a familiar melody.  He’s experienced this before—why it hit so goddamn hard is anybody’s guess, because this happens all the time.  The deflection, the rejection, the sacrifices.  He’s used to it.  Why is it hurting so bad?

“Hey,” Matt says, putting a tentative hand on his back.  “Hey.  You back with us?”

Us?  Keith raises his head like it’s on a puppet string, wobbly, and blinks until he can make out two more figures standing behind Matt.  Green armor, and an orange mustache.  He’s pretty sure.  Must be Pidge and Coran.  No one else.  It’s neither here nor there.  He takes another deep breath before he manages to nod.

Matt breathes out in relief.  “Good.  Do you want some water?”  He grabs the pouch that Coran hands over, threads the straw into the little hole for him in an act of infinite kindness, and when Keith finally takes it his hands are only shaking a little.  His head hurts.  He drinks a little because the water is nice and cool.  He wants to go to his room.  He doesn’t have a room here anymore.

A moment later he realizes that Matt is talking again, asking a question.  He looks back at his sister, who gives a half-hearted shrug that leaves just a pinch of guilt in the set of her shoulders.  Keith tries to focus.  “Say again?” he manages.

“I asked how often this happens,” Matt says, softly.  Keith shakes his head.  On the one hand, this is the first panic attack he’s had since that battle.  On the other… this is his life.  This happens all the time.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

Everyone takes a step back as he roughly pushes himself back to his feet.  The feeling is starting to come back to all his extremities, and he thinks he can make it to a bathroom on his own to wash his face off.  He mumbles something about letting them get back to the meeting and tries to walk away.

He finds Matt in his way.  Matt, who is looking between him and the others like he _doesn’t understand_. 

“Wait, Keith… are you okay?  Don’t you want to talk about it?” he asks.  He puts a hand on Keith’s shoulder and Keith stiffens. 

“No, I really don’t,” Keith says, and breaks eye contact.  Things are fractured here.  The team said they were always there for him, but even before that he suspected they really didn’t want to be.  Shiro’s face comes up again—it’s always that fight, where Shiro cut him down, that keeps coming back.  He… he can’t talk to them.  Even if he wanted to, and he’s not even sure he does.  He complicates things.  Shiro doesn’t need that.  Shiro has enough problems.

Coran bows his head, and Pidge fidgets, and Keith pulls away from all of them.

As he walks away, he hears Matt’s whispering voice following him.  “…what happened between you guys?” he demands, and Pidge responds with, “It wasn’t us, it was him.  He pulled away.”

He stops listening, and he walks, and he walks, and when he finally stops he feels more lost than he has since Shiro came into his life.  He misses his mom, he realizes.  It’s heart-stopping when he puts it all together.  He wanted a family so bad, he wanted Team Voltron to be it, but he wouldn’t let himself have it because she left and _god it hurts_ —

For the second time, he finds himself crying and this time it isn’t panic, it’s just plain old gut-wrenching pain.  He feels displaced, like he’s back in the system and yet another family is giving him up because he’s too much to handle.  Of course, that’s when the anger comes, because he’s over this, damnit.  He’s over it he’s over it he’s _over it_.  He’s so mad at himself that he almost wants to punch a wall.  _Get it together, you fucking wreck_.  He should be in the dining hall with them helping with Lotor and what’s he doing?  Sitting in an abandoned room crying?  Pathetic.  He spent YEARS growing out of this, training himself not to cry about his mommy, and one near-death experience is making him revert.

It seems like today, randomly picked out by some higher power, is the day he finally hit his limit.  He doesn’t have the energy to deal with this.  With his own mental bullshit.  He doesn’t have it in him to punish himself into functioning correctly right now.  So he curls up in a tight little ball, hugging himself, promising that later he’ll make himself pay for this moment of weakness, because that's the only way he can let himself cry like this.

He’s sniffling into his arms when the footsteps come again.  Not Matt, this time, and only one pair.  Light but surefooted, striding right toward him.  They pause in the doorway and there’s a little knock on the wall before Coran calls out to him, “Keith, you in here?”

“What is it?” he manages to ask around the hiccups.  Hopefully, they don’t need him.  He’ll pull himself together if he has to, but right now… right now he’s given in.  He’s not ready to be strong yet.  He hates himself for the weakness.

“I’ve brought you some of the dessert from our dinner.  It didn’t seem like you were quite ready to come back yet.”

An understatement.  He turns his face away.  Unperturbed, Coran sidles in and squats beside him, placing the plate on the floor.  He doesn’t speak at first.  Not until Keith slowly picks up the plate and starts poking at the mousse-jello-thingy on it. 

“I’ve seen my share of civil disputes in my time,” he starts. 

Keith scoffs.  “Great opener, Coran.  Remind me that I’ve literally torn the castle and the team into pieces.”

Seemingly taken aback, Coran clears his throat and brushes some non-existent dirt off his uniform.  “I was heading toward something, ah, else.  Bear with me, my boy.”

Keith grunts noncommittally, angrily scrubbing his face clean.  If they’re going to have a conversation about what he’s done wrong, then he’s done crying.  He’ll humor Coran for as long as it takes for the man to get his point across, and then he’s gone.  He’ll go sit in the Blade’s transport pod until Kolivan is ready to head back.  God, he’s so tired.  He just wants to sleep.  How did he make it this far without completely fucking collapsing, he wants to know? 

“There was one time,” Coran says softly, starting again, slower and more careful now.  “That a settlement was flooding.  Voltron was summoned, but there wasn’t much a giant robot could do besides freeze the source of the flood waters.  He was just too big to maneuver.  So we went in on foot.”

A pause.  Keith says nothing.  He continues to pick at the food by his side.  Nonplussed, Coran continues like he's actually holding a proper conversation.

“Oh, everyone was recruited to help—royalty, servants, adolescents, anyone who was able-bodied was asked to go in and help people who were trapped.  Now, some of the people we were rescuing were very high ranked officials.  And as the day wore on, more and more arguments broke out about who to save first and who to leave behind.”

“So what happened?” Keith asks dully, hoping to urge the story along.  Unfortunately, it seems as if Coran is starting to get into his storytelling groove.

“Well, obviously things came to a right violent head.  It was chaos!  Buildings were collapsing, people were crying from the rooftops waiting for rescue, and Alfor…”

There he pauses for a long moment, taking a deep breath.  Keith huddles further into himself.

“King Alfor was never one to stay back from the front lines.  If his people were fighting, he was fighting alongside them.  If there was nothing Voltron could do, then he would be out there, on foot, doing whatever he could.  He had a sense of obligation like a Golgarian warlord.  He would die with his people.  But the other paladins!  Oh, what a fuss they put up, demanding that he stay back.

“He tried to explain it to them, later that night.  But they wouldn’t hear it!  ‘You’re irreplaceable,’ they said.  ‘You are Voltron’s creator, you can’t risk your life like that!’”  Coran shakes his head.  “They wouldn’t let up on him, yelling themselves hoarse till the early morning.  Alfor was so upset.  ‘People needed me, I did what I needed to do,’ he said to me.  And of course I agreed with him, but…”

“But…?” Keith prods.

“But there were two realities, in that settlement, that day.  The reality that Alfor needed to do what he was doing, and the reality that losing Alfor would have been a blow too hard to overcome.  Tell me that doesn’t sound familiar.”

Keith shakes his head.  “I thought it through.  They didn’t need me.  I would have died for them and they would have lived to fight another fight.”

“They don’t want that.  My boy, that is exactly what they’ve _never_ wanted.  They don’t want you to make a decision all on your own and leave them to their fate.”

“Then I don’t get what I’m supposed to do,” he says, and damn it all, he can feel the tears creeping back.  He’s done with this bullshit, _why is he crying again?!_   “I tried to be the leader and I failed, and then I tried to leave so I could find Lotor with the Blades and I also failed, and then I was there and the only option I had to save them was to—to—"

Coran rubs his arm, brisk and cheerful even as he breaks down.  “It’s not about trying or failing.  It’s about talking to the people you love so that you aren’t seeing two different things when you’re looking at the same place.”

“Every time I try I just fuck it up more!  I _didn’t want to let them down_ ,” he says, and it’s almost a wail, almost too loud.  He gulps and tries to control himself but he can’t.  He can’t do anything right today.  Or any day.  He just fucks up, and fucks up, and keeps fucking everything up.  He whines into his hands, unable to even begin to stuff that back down where it ought to be.  He ends up hunched over, half-against Coran’s waiting shoulder, bawling his eyes out.

“You didn’t,” Coran says, pulling him in all the way against his chest.  “Keith.  _Keith_.  I _promise_ , you didn’t let them down.”

“Maybe not that time, not entirely, but every other—”

“Shhh.”

“It would have been better if I died for them—”

“Shhhhhh…”

“Coran, I can’t—I _can’t_ —"

Coran squeezes until his breath leaves in a wheeze. 

He gives up.  He can’t explain it to an eccentric old alien who thinks bartering with the Unilu is the funnest thing this side of Betelgeuse.  He can’t explain how he’s broken and the closest he came to having and keeping a family was when he almost ended up in a body bag.  That’s fucked up.  That’s super fucked up, and even Coran, with his centuries of war stories as the king’s personal assistant and advisor, is too bright to be marred by his filth.

A teeny, perpetually peeved part of his brain lets him know that he’s being dramatic on top of crying again.  _Can’t break down right, even_ , the little voice says.  He really isn’t having a good day.  Coran hums a tuneless melody while he shudders and sobs in the semi-dark and he honestly wishes that he never came to space.  He can’t quite make himself wish that he never saved Shiro—Shiro means too much to him—but if he had just sent the others out to the cavern on their own, his life would probably be so much better.  _Their_ lives would be better.  If he had just—if he could have just—if—

—if he wasn’t who he was.  That’s what it boils down to.  If he was just… anyone else.

“Keith,” Coran says, softly.  Keith thinks about the irony of Coran finally using his name instead of a moniker when he least wants to be himself.  He presses his face into Coran’s collar.

“I can’t,” he says.  “I tried and I can’t.”

Coran lets out a breath that is almost a sigh.  “It’s okay.  I swear it is.  You can’t do it today—that’s fine.  You can try again tomorrow.  You just have to try again, that’s all it takes.”

Fine.  He shudders one last time, sniffling.  Fine, he’ll think about it.  Who knows, maybe he’ll be less of a pile of garbage tomorrow.  Coran is solid, strong, and sure of him.  Made of everything that he isn’t right now.  He feels like he’s stolen something, by having Coran here with him instead of with the princess.  He’s stolen Coran’s stories and his kind words and his effortless endurance.

Though Coran is a person, with autonomy—he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be, right?

Keith tries to hold onto that as Coran cradles him like he’s doing his best impersonation of a vice.  Coran is here—and it’s because he wants to be—and no one has stolen anything or hurt anyone in this little bubble.  The two of them can sit, and cling to each other, and he’s allowed to not be completely put together for one day.  He's allowed to break.

He’s allowed to want his family.

And tomorrow, he's allowed to try and get them back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is getting nightmares and someone finally calls him on his bullshit. How much is a group hug worth? So much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MUCH FOR THIS BEING A ONESHOT I'M

He thinks he’s having a nightmare.

Or he was, or something.  All he knows is that it feels like he’s just woken up, and even though he can’t remember what he was dreaming about, adrenaline and fear taste familiar enough in his mouth that he puts the pieces together.  He doesn’t know where he is.  The room is dark, darker than he’s used to, and he can’t stop his wheezing long enough to hear anything much.

“…You really aren’t doing good,” says a voice, somewhere behind him.  He thinks there’s a note of despondency but he’s too busy trying to get his breathe back to really tell.  He rolls onto his stomach in an attempt to lever himself up and see where the fuck he is, but before he can go far a thick arm loops around his waist and pulls him against a very solid chest.

“What are you doing?” he gasps, flailing a little.

The currently nameless voice makes some shushing noises, trying to hold him, but he’s done being held.  He’s done not knowing what’s going on and he’s done with feeling out of control and he’s _done with the nightmares_ , damnit.

“Get off me!” he hisses, shoving.  He might have hit harder than he meant to because the voice lets out an ‘oof!’ and falls away.

There’s a moment of silence where he curls in on himself and catalogs what he knows—unknown place, comfy bed, person in the dark, nightmare—before the voice is back, sounding slightly hurt now.  “Did you really have to go for the solar plexus?  Not cool, Keith.”

Finally, a name comes to him.  “Hunk?” he asks, unsure.  He can’t possibly be at the Blade base because they don’t like sleepovers, but he hasn’t slept anywhere else in months now.  But why would he be somewhere else?

The realization strikes in one fell swoop.

“Oh god, we’re captured.  Lotor took advantage of having all of us in the same place—we must have walked right into an ambush, Hunk, we _have to find the others_ —"

“What?!” Hunk squeaks, grabbing onto him.  He allows it even though it hurts because they’re in trouble, they have to stick together—

That’s when someone turns on the lights, illuminating the plain grey walls and blue accents of the Castle of Lions.

For a second he doesn’t know what to do.  Is this a trap?  Is this even real?  Why would he be sleeping in the Castle if it’s not some kind of druid hallucination—?  He stares at Hunk, who is grumpily looking back with one hand on the wall-modulator that controls the lighting strips.  “Good morning, I guess,” Hunk says, rubbing at his eyes.

Hunk is wearing pajamas, standing there and watching warily as he looks around, lost.  He glances down—he’s wearing pajamas, too.  Red ones.  He’s all tangled up in his sheets, though.  His sheets?  This can’t possibly be his room, he’s pretty sure Allura’s been using it because it’s closer to the hangars than her own royal suite. 

Hunk sighs.  “I didn’t mean to scare you.  You were yelling so I thought I should try and wake you up, but I guess I didn’t think it through very well.”

“Oh,” Keith says, hunching down a little.  It doesn’t explain why he’s in the Castle, but at least now he knows why Hunk is here.  He was having nightmares and screaming in his sleep and generally being a pain in the ass.  Figures that he can’t even sleep peacefully.  He’s always a disruption.

_Shove it down_ , says the little voice in his head.  _Stop thinking about it.  Move on.  Or do you want a repeat of yesterday?_

No, he doesn’t.  He sighs and starts to untangle himself.  “It’s okay, Hunk.  You can go back to bed now.”  And when Hunk is gone, he can get up and try to find Kolivan, or maybe Coran, to figure out _why the fuck he’s here_.

Hunk looks unconvinced by the brushoff.  He seems like he’s about to argue when the door swooshes open and another head is stuck into the room.

“Did you get him to calm down?” a sleepy voice asks.  The blue paladin’s eye mask hangs around his neck as he slumps against the doorframe.  He blinks slowly, yawns, and finally seems to realize that Keith is awake and looking right at him.  “Oh, hey, Mullet.  You okay?  You were yelling pretty loud for a while there.  Not that I’m complaining.  I mean I am a little because it’s our shift to sleep, but eh.”

“I’m fine,” Keith snaps, resisting the urge to bare his teeth at the both of them. 

“No, no you’re not,” Hunk says.  “Dude, trust me, I know fine and not fine and that was _not_ fine.”

Deep breathe.  Don’t yell at them.  He desperately wants to push them both away, to shove them out the door and just figure this out on his own.  He wants to get out of here.  The longer he’s awake, the more acutely his chest aches with the knowledge that he doesn’t belong here anymore.  If he ever really did.  “Hunk, it was just a nightmare.  I’m over it,” he says.  He’s proud of himself for keeping the bitterness to a minimum.  They don’t need to hear that.

Lance wrinkles his nose.  “Oh yeah, Hunk, he’s over it!  Obviously!  That’s why he gets nightmares _all the time_.”

“How the fuck would you know?” Keith snaps back, and the only reason he’s not out of bed and getting in Lance’s face is the hand that Hunk puts on his shoulder.

“Uh, how about because the Blade on duty told us after Kolivan messaged the base to say that you were staying behind?”  Lance plants his hands on his hips and leans further in.  “Christ, how out of it are you?  You also had a complete meltdown yesterday during dinner, in case you don’t remember, and the only reason we didn’t rip Kolivan a new one was because he says he _tried_ to talk to you about being a self-sacrificial dick and you just brushed him off.”

Well that explains that.  Keith can tell even without a mirror that he’s making a very nasty face.  Most of his brain is trying to keep him quiet, to hold in the anger bubbling to the surface, but there’s one very small, very hurt part that just won’t shut the fuck up.  Trust Lance to bring out the absolute worst in him, he guesses.  Before he knows it he’s blowing up in their faces, giving up a deep dark thought that should never have seen the light of day.  “YOU DIDN’T CARE BEFORE, DON’T PRETEND TO CARE NOW!” he yells, and then what he did comes crashing down.

“What—I—”  Lance sputters, finally coming all the way into the room.  Hunk is gaping, pulling his hand back like Keith might bite it.  They both stare, and stare, and Keith doesn’t know what to do except grab two fistfuls of his own hair and PULL because that wasn’t what he wanted to say, that wasn’t what he meant when he told Coran he would try again, that _wasn’t supposed to come out_ —

“Keith,” Lance says, softer now.  Keith can hear him approaching but he refuses to look up, refuses to let go of his hair, mercilessly twisting his fists until the pain is unbearable.  Lance’s voice falters like he doesn’t know what to follow up with.

Words bubble up, and Keith starts talking, like he can possibly undo the damage he’s just done.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, that wasn’t what I—I know you guys were all trying your hardest, I know that, I know that I was the problem—"

He doesn’t dare look up to see what the two of them are doing, what looks they might be exchanging.  He’s so deep in apologies now that he couldn’t come up if he tried.  They might be attempting to talk to him, they might not, but he’s too afraid to come out of his own headspace to check.  Finally he’s cut off—not by words, but by Hunk literally scooping him up and throwing him over a shoulder, sheets and all.

He groans loudly, wanting to protest but fully aware that he deserves whatever fate awaits him now.  Lance tries to talk to him as the blue paladin follows Hunk and his new burden out of the room, but Keith can only groan louder and drag his hands down his face.  This is humiliating but he _deserves it_.

According to the dim lights in the hall, it’s way too late for anyone to be awake.  That doesn’t stop the entire team, Coran and Matt included, from already being up and sitting around the kitchen table.  There are more half-filled cups than there are people, implying that they’ve been at it a while.  They seem to be discussing some of Lotor’s riskier ideas, but as Hunk plows in, they all fall silent.

“Okay, someone tell this boy that we care about him!” he announces.

Keith covers his face with both hands as Hunk deposits him in a chair, sinking down as far as he can without sliding under the table.  “Don’t—” he starts, but Hunk talks over him.

“Shiro, please _please_ talk to him.  Matt!  Pidge!  You guys went after him in the hallway, right, so just… talk!  Let him know that I’m not lying when I tell him I’m glad he’s alive!  Because man, I can’t watch this anymore—this is _killing me_.”

The room is stiff and quiet for a moment and Keith contemplates actually hiding under the table.  Pidge is avoiding eye contact, favoring a cup of maybe-coffee-substitute.  Matt is looking around the room, watching everyone closely like he’s waiting for someone to step up.  No one does.  Finally, Shiro clears his throat.  “Hunk… what do you mean?  Watch what?”

Hunk growls.  He starts pacing, gesturing with his hands like he’s trying to shape what he wants to say.  “The nightmares.  _And_ the self-deprecation.  And the—quiznacking—he thinks we don’t care about him!”

All eyes turn to Keith and he resolutely looks away.

“Keith… why do you think I wouldn’t care?” Shiro asks.

“It’s not that I don’t think you care!” he bursts out.  He sees Pidge teeter back like she just blinked all the way awake for the first time.  He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, how to express the knot in his stomach that just won’t leave.  He just knows that he did promise Coran to try.  And he wants this, he does—he wants to talk to his team and he wants to stop feeling like he’s falling apart and he wants to stop feeling like a _stranger_ to _everyone_.  “Look, it’s… I tried, okay?  I tried to do the cheers and I tried to be there for you guys but Voltron doesn’t need a loner and you do so much better without me.  And I guess I just… I’m not even mad, okay, it’s… I was a distraction from Voltron’s real team.  You guys had so many other things to worry about and I just kept getting in the way.  Voltron means more than my stupid fucking— _feelings_.”

Everyone is staring.  Pidge looks frozen with guilt.  Shiro’s mouth is hanging open, his eyes wide.  Lance looks ready to tear his hair out and start arguing. 

Keith doesn’t give him the chance.  “I know it’s fucking stupid, okay, you don’t have to tell me that.  I know I shouldn’t be worked up about it.  I get it.  And I…”  He breathes in, willing the tears to leave him alone for one goddamn hour, _please_.  “What I did, what I was going to do… it’s okay.  You guys are worth it, the new team is worth it.  And I’m—I’m not.”  _I want to be, I want to be, I want to be, but I’m not_.

As he finishes, Lance lets out a sound like a sheet of metal being torn apart and stalks off into the hallway.  “Oh my GOD!” his muffled voice yells.  Keith flinches, ducking his head.  Now he’s in for it.  He should have kept his mouth shut, should have just sucked it up like he always does.  He’s opened himself all the way up now, he’s more emotionally invested than he has been in anything since the first time Shiro disappeared, and there is no way for him to come out of this in one piece. 

He feels so lost as he waits for the rejection.  For them to tell him that he’s right—they didn’t need him screwing up all their plans, that it was better when he left, hell, that maybe he should have died.  He thinks about his father, stumbling over his words, trying to reassure him that his mother didn’t leave because she wanted to but failing because, well… she must have, right?  He was a baby, he doesn’t even remember, and he _knows_ —she wanted to go.  Why should this be any different?

Shiro seems to be buffing himself up to speak when Lance comes back in, a tsunami.  “How the FUCK is it,” he demands, getting so far into Keith’s space that he’s almost sitting in his lap, “that we worked side by side for MONTHS learning how to get along, and you didn’t think you could, maybe, talk to me about this before it came to the point where you’d DIE for us without blinking?  I went to you when I was convinced I was going to get kicked off the team, man—I thought we could talk to each other about this shit!  I thought you just didn’t want to!”

His voice cracks on the last few words, and Keith desperately tries to shield himself from the way Lance is also fighting off tears.  He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back and away.  “Lance, that’s not—”

Lance isn’t done yet.  “I was your right-hand man.  I was supposed to _be there for you_.  You don’t think I would have tried to keep the team together if I knew you actually wanted to be here with us?  Come ON, Mullet, you’re not this stupid!”

“But I wasn’t wrong!  You guys are good together without me!”

“Because we HAD TO BE!  _YOU LEFT FIRST, KEITH_!”

“ _I KNOW_!” he roars, and Lance takes a step back.  In the heavy silence he curls up again, hot tears slicing down his face.  He covers his eyes with a hand, trying to keep all of his soft, vulnerable pieces away from them.  “I know,” he whispers.

“Why would you do that?” Lance asks, voice hitching.

He shakes his head.  Why would anyone?  Because they’re awful, manipulative people who can’t have a good thing without fucking it up?  Or maybe because they’ve never been properly loved and never learned how to do it without hurting everyone close to them.  Because it’s better to lash out and push people away than let them leave first.  Because this _hurts_.

He hears Shiro get up.  He tries not to listen as Shiro kneels down in front of him, tries to resist when Shiro wraps his arms around him and attempts to pull him out of the chair into a hug.  He’s too weak to stop him.  In two seconds flat he’s pressed against Shiro’s solid chest, shaking, his arms curled around Shiro’s waist as tight as he can get them.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Shiro says.  “It doesn’t make you a bad person to be afraid, Keith.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Keith says into his shoulder.  “I don’t know how to—I can’t fucking—”

“It’s _okay_ ,” Shiro whispers, starting to rock them a little.

There’s a scrape of chair legs, and small arms wrap around his neck from the side.

“Pidge, I’m so sorry—” Keith tries to say, but she shushes him.  One of her hands strokes through his hair.  She’s trying to keep a straight face, but just like him, just like Lance, she’s losing the battle.

Matt arrives next, attaching himself between Pidge and Shiro.  He squeezes once and gives Keith a bright smile before he tucks his head in.  Allura follows, lengthening her arms to get all the way around the growing pile.  Then it’s Coran, openly bawling into Allura’s hair just like last time. 

Keith doesn’t expect Lance to join in, not with the way they were just yelling at each other.  He’s shaken to his core when Lance wipes his face clean and falls to his knees to squirm his way in.  He doesn’t stop until he’s right up against Keith, tucking Keith’s head under his chin and rocking the whole bunch of them from side to side.  “You need to _talk to us_ ,” he says, his voice still thick.  “My skin can’t handle this kind of stress, man.”

Hunk is last.  It’s like he’s waiting for everyone else to properly settle in, watching closely to make sure no one backs out, before he dives in and nearly scoops the entire group off the ground.  Keith locks his arms around Shiro, unwilling to let go.  It’s like the group hug they gave him when he left, except… not.  There is no farewell attached to it, no time limit.  He doesn’t feel like everyone is just waiting for him to let go and leave.

_You could have had this the entire time if you weren’t such a coward_ , the nasty voice in his head says.  He can barely hear it over Hunk and Pidge scheduling bi-weekly video calls and sleepovers and dinners with the Blade so that he won’t slip out of their fingers again.

“It’s okay,” Shiro says into his ear.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay.”

Maybe someday he can believe that.  Maybe someday that, too, will hit him.  Maybe one day he’ll break down and cry _not_ because he feels unwanted and convinced himself so thoroughly of it that he almost died.  One day the tears will be because they’re here for him… and they won’t leave.  


End file.
